


all teeth, not smiling

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, dark!Harry Hart, inconsistent updates, slightly dub-conish, tags to change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: He hopes that Harry takes mercy on him. Makes it quick, if anything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by an anon, I delivered. I am equals parts sorry and not. Not sure when I will update this but, hoo boy, do I have some ideas.

All Eggsy can taste is blood. When he opens his mouth, it drips from his lips. Absently, he thinks maybe it looks pretty badass but his head throbs wildly, his pulse thunders in his ears, his entire body shaking with it. Harry’s coming back.

He can move with speed, but Harry’s faster. He can fight him off, but Harry can outstep him. He can run, but Harry will catch him. Like Harry knows every step he’s going to make before he takes it. It’s terrifying and halfway through Harry throwing punches, Eggsy blocking with dwindling energy and effort because it all _fucking hurts_ (every part of him and he’s never felt this spent and this shattered), Eggsy thinks he might not make it.

He hopes that Harry takes mercy on him. Makes it quick, if anything.

But there’s a blank menacing look in Harry’s eyes, a slanted grin tugging his lips, that says otherwise.

Eggsy stopped pleading with Harry within the first few minutes. He wasn’t listening. When Eggsy first says _Harry, it’s me, please_ , Harry answers him with an umbrella to the neck, a foot to his chest. He’s laid out on the floor, gasping desperately for air, because he thinks he can _talk_ this out.

When it was revealed Poppy wasn’t the mastermind, that someone more familiar was the culprit behind it all, Eggsy should have known words were no longer an option. It was all too cruel, all too calculated. Harry Hart knew what he was doing and he was not the man Eggsy knew. Had known, so long ago.

Eggsy scrambles to his feet. His gun was emptied on the guards at the door, four down the hall, six more before he entered the room. Stupidly, he had left behind. He thought–he hoped if he left it behind, Harry wouldn’t feel threatened, wouldn’t react with violence. He thought he had a chance. He _wasn’t_ thinking.

The man with the tailored suit, the dead milky eye, the hideous determination on his face, blood spattered across his cheek– _Eggsy’s blood_ –is coming towards him. He wants to kill Eggsy, he knows this now.

He can’t accept it.

He blocks another swing of Harry’s arm and it sends a shock through him, every nerve shot, every inch aching. He feels bruises on his skin, his bones protesting against the constant battering assault, _how is Harry still going?_ He’s taken just as many hits, the force of his attacks must wear on him, too. But he doesn’t slow.

There’s a kick to his stomach, he doubles over, bile rising to mix with the blood. He spits it out and groans.

“I expected more out of you, dear boy.”

Eggsy shuts his eyes tight, grimaces, shakes his head. He can’t stand to hear his voice anymore. It makes every cut, every bruise, every ache worse.

When he heard Harry was alive, he cried. He cried because there should have been no chance for this, he had knew people don't just come back. Cried, hands gripped against his seat flying over London, he thought they had another chance. He thought he could apologize. He thought Harry would, too. Because when people _do just come back_ , this was how these things were supposed to go.

But it doesn’t work that way, he comes to realize.

Something cool and hard, harder than skin or bone, makes contact with the right side of his face and he’s sent reeling back. He can’t see out of his eye anymore, can’t even open it. He doesn’t think he has much of a chance anyway if he could. His body is sagging under the weight of his pain, every breath drug up with an agonizing burn from his lungs, he no longer wants to fight.

He bares his teeth and there’s blood in the corners of his mouth. He can feel it fall down his chin. He knows Harry is watching.

“End it then,” he croaks, bites it out, blood and spit with it. “ _End it._ Such a disappointment, I am.”

He means it. He does. He wishes he would have taken the poison. Wishes he would have died in that bunker. He could have died a hundred times between then and now and he wishes he would have.

It’s bittersweet, he thinks, to die at Harry’s hands.

Harry made him. Harry will destroy him.

Harry stills. His hands are palm out, fingers spread, facing Eggsy. Like Eggsy has it in him to fight back anymore. What a laugh. Harry’s always had a sick sense of humour.

Harry takes one step closer and Eggsy doesn’t move.

Eggsy sways where he stands. He’s not going to look away. He can accept dying, he did that all a year ago. It was always waiting for him, biding it’s time. He can accept dying like this, because an agent doesn’t get to die old and peaceful in his bed.

He cannot accept this. Not Harry. But he has to and he will not look away. He will face him when he dies. He knows he will die here. Harry probably wants to see the light go from his eyes.

There’s a crack, a burst of pain that radiates through his head, and he’s on the floor. His nose is broken, his face warm and wet, and he chokes on the sob, on the blood in his mouth. Harry is over him, kneeling on him, knees digging into his thighs, pinning him down.

Harry’s hands are around his throat, thumbs pressing down in the centre, and Eggsy’s ready for it. He’s sorry he didn’t get to say goodbye. He’s sorry he’s leaving his mum alone again. He’s sorry for a lot of things.

He’s sorry for loving Harry (but not even that, not that at all, he could never be sorry for it even if he never had him, it had been good when he had it all to himself), for not being enough to save him. He’s sorry for not being enough. He wants to tell Harry that. But he knows it wouldn’t matter even if he could.

He’s not sorry for fighting back.

Harry’s thumbs move up Eggsy’s neck. They press up Eggsy’s chin, tilting his head up. Harry searches him, just the one eye flickering across him, taking him in. Looking disappointed in his work, like a sculptor who got his proportions wrong.

Then Harry’s leaning down, kissing him, tongue wiping across his lips. Eggsy opens, pliant, easy to please. Even now. Heat prickles through him, his scalp tingling, and his own hands come up to Harry’s neck, grasping weakly. How long he’s wanted this and he’s dying. He’s dying at Harry’s hands and Harry’s kissing him.

Dying man’s last wish.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Harry murmurs against his lips and Eggsy shakes. “If it could have been any other way…”

_It’s alright, it’s alright._

Another fist to the face and Eggsy’s head smacks against the concrete, stars in his eyes, blinding anguish that breaks open within him. It just settles in with the rest. Everything hurts in some way and Eggsy’s getting used to it. High pain tolerance, the medic team once said. He could take stitches without numbing creams, could grit through setting a dislocated shoulder. He even finished a fight with a trained assassin with a shattered collarbone though he did finally pass out from the pain after he had stumbled out of the compound.

He could tolerate a lot. He has. Far too much, for someone as young as him.

Harry’s kiss hurts the most, he thinks.

Merlin had told him not to go alone. He had left Roxy waiting in the hangar. He needed to do this on his own. Thought Harry would want to listen. He’s glad they aren’t here to see this.

Harry’s hands are fisted in his lapels now, pulling him up. Eggsy thinks Harry might kiss him again, welcomes it, wants it. Harry is so warm, his hands anchors against his heaving chest. But then a swell of panic surges in him, courses across him and he struggles, his eyes going wide.

No, no, not like this, he was supposed to _fix_ this, it wasn’t supposed to end like this, not here–

“Harry,” Eggsy gasps. Harry’s not listening. Eggsy claws at Harry’s hands, desperate enough for begging, pleading. “Harry, please, please, _don’t_ –Harry, fuck, _please_ –”

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Harry whispers.

Harry pulls him up the last few inches before slamming him back down onto the hard floor, the world crashing into darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at Tumblr **[@notbrogues!](http://notbrogues.tumblr.com)**


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